So there you go. Either it’s going to be a good quarter, Mr. Knightley, or I pack my bags. No halfway.
Sitting and waiting . . .
Sam
P.S. Just got a text—while brushing my teeth. I sincerely hope we never have instantaneous and unknowing video access to people.
Alex: Mom M said you had a rough go at Christmas. Here’s to happy healthy spring. Still working hard?
Me: Much better, school and health. Thanks for the scarf and hat. How’s movie?
Alex: Stop thanking me. Movie great. Better than last but keeping me from my book. Thinking____for a title. Thoughts? But don’t tell.
Me: Very intriguing. Lips are sealed.
I sat speechless, toothpaste dribbling off my chin. Alex told me the book title. I feel like an insider, a trusted friend. What do you think ET would pay for that title? Just kidding. I wouldn’t even tell you. After all, I’m a woman of integrity—an insider with integrity.
JANUARY 18
Dear Mr. Knightley,
You’re the first—second—to hear the news: Johnson loved my article. He was stunned. I’m stunned. You have no idea what this means, Mr. Knightley. Maybe you do.
He called my cell this afternoon and demanded I come to his office. I dropped my tuna fish sandwich and left Debbie and Ashley at Jimmy John’s, worried for my survival.
He stood as I entered and pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit down and tell me about your feature.” He sat and bounced back and forth in his office chair, tapping the armrest with his fingers.
“It’s my story, in my voice. It’s a beginning if I have any hope of writing or staying here.”
“Hope of writing? This is it, Moore. I see you. And even though you say it’s your story, you’ve approached it with astounding objectivity and subtlety—very impressive. Where’s it been hiding?”
I sat there a minute. How to explain?
“Sometimes it was too hard to be me. Eventually I forgot how.” I looked toward the window to calm my breathing. “I literally broke over Christmas. My appendix burst, and I don’t think it was a coincidence. And I was sure you were going to kick me out, so I went back to Grace House. I thought I’d move back in and find work, but Kyle got me talking, and . . . this is what came out of us.”
“I added a lot of pressure, didn’t I?” His voice was quiet and concerned.
“You were right. I’ve been picking subjects that couldn’t touch me or ones that I could hide behind—until this. Kyle started us, and then we couldn’t stop. We needed to get it out.”
“Tell me about Kyle. Tell me about everything.” He bounced forward and leaned over the desk—getting closer to the story.
And that’s what I gave him. My story. I told him everything. It was another one of those cathartic afternoons: I talked, he asked questions, he pulled out a ham sandwich to share, and three hours later he stretched and said, “You’re going to be fine, Moore. This is good work. I’m sending it to the Trib.”
“Really?”
“It’s that good. What’d you think? You can’t use this simply for a grade. I told you, Moore, we make careers here. The Tribune awards a couple internships each summer—not errand-boy jobs, but the real deal, writing and investigating. This may be strong enough to land you a spot.”
He noticed my fallen expression. “What is it? Your mouth turned down.”
“Sir, as I said, I’ve hidden my past for a while now. And there’s Kyle to consider. He may not want this published.”
“Tell you what, talk to Kyle. While I like my writers to stand behind their work, pseudonyms might be appropriate here.”
“Thank you.”
“E-mail me the piece with the names changed tonight, and I’ll send it in.”
“Thank you. I’m completely honored.” I stood to leave.
“Don’t be. You deserve it, Moore. And if you get that internship, it’ll push you harder than I do. You’re green, but I suspect you need challenge to keep you going.” He reached out to shake my hand. “Well done, Moore. I’m proud of you.”
I grasped his hand in a daze and turned to leave.
“And, Moore?” Johnson’s tone told me that I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
“Yes, sir?”
“This is outstanding, but it’s only a quarter of my assessment for a concentration in feature writing. I don’t grade on potential. Unless you want to switch specialties, all your work must come up to scratch.”
“It will.” There was nothing more to say, so I bounced out on little puffs of joy. I know the last comment was a downer, but it was also very hopeful. Johnson is proud of me and, I think, believes my work can improve. He wouldn’t send me as a possible candidate to the Tribune otherwise. So I’m not going to talk myself out of being pleased and extremely relieved.
As I sat on a bench to call Kyle, I got scared. Published? I’ll be exposed to the world. Am I ready for that?
Kyle wouldn’t hear of pseudonyms. “We use our own names or nothing. We did this to be free. Fake names ain’t free.”
“Kyle, you can’t stop me.” I felt backed into a corner.
He didn’t answer for an eternity. “I can’t.” He took a deep breath. I could hear it shudder over the line. “Sam, I’m fifteen next summer; guys I know have babies or they’re dyin’ on the streets. I’m past being a kid and I got choices to make. To be the kinda man I see in Coach, the kind Father John talks about . . . I won’t hide anymore, Sam. Don’t make me ashamed of my life. Do what you want, but I got no part in it.” He hung up.
I sat stunned. I’ve replayed his words in my mind, Mr. Knightley, and I’m so ashamed. I thought only of me, and I made Kyle feel like less. I can’t have it both ways, can I? It’s that moment. We go forward or we’re done, trapped forever. I will never hold Kyle back.
I e-mailed a note to Dr. Johnson:
Thank you so much for this opportunity. Please submit the article with no changes and use our real names.
I sent it an hour ago and I still feel shaky. There are so many people I need to warn—so much to say. What if the Tribune actually prints it? I’m going running . . .
Sincerely,
Sam
FEBRUARY 1
Dear Mr. Knightley,
School is moving along well. My favorite class is actually statistics. It’s a nice mental break for me—crunching numbers is far easier than figuring out how to reveal yourself in print while still “maintaining objectivity and perspective.” It’s a fine line I haven’t learned to walk, but I’m getting better help now. Johnson is more constructive in his criticism, like he believes I’m worth his time. It’s a good feeling and makes me work harder. Debbie noticed it and congratulated me on getting out of the doghouse.
I haven’t told anyone about the article yet. Even if the Trib doesn’t publish it, I need to be honest with my friends. And I need to talk to Josh. He came to my apartment last night. I cooked him dinner before we watched a movie. Afterward I thought I’d tell him, but he seemed interested in other things . . . so I never said a word. Part of me thinks it should affect nothing. Another part knows it changes everything. I called Hannah this morning in a panic.
“You’ll be fine, Sam. I’ve never seen you so free. Don’t step back now.”
“It’s too hard, Hannah. I already feel raw. What if I retreat into my books?”
“You won’t. Besides, how could you ever want to be Fanny Price?”
I laughed. “You’re reading Mansfield Park? Fanny’s dull at times, but she has her uses. She’s very capable of fading into the background, and she’s a perfect moral compass.”
“Are you channeling her lately?”
I was confused. “I’m trying not to project anyone, remember?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean the moral compass thing. Josh?”
“What about him?” I said, although I knew what she meant.
“Intimacy isn’t always about love. You’ve got to talk to him.”
“We’re not
sleeping together! I—” I clamped my mouth shut. I never blurt that out, because no one would understand why we aren’t.
“That’s good.”
Now Hannah shocked me. No one else has said that.
“You think so?” I tried to act casual, but I desperately wanted to know her thoughts.
“Absolutely. It complicates everything, changes everything. I believe if you’re not married to the guy, that shouldn’t be happening.”
“That’s not very forward thinking of you, Hannah.” I wanted to push her. I wanted answers.
“Put it in your terms. Take all those Austen and Brontë characters who went astray. They weren’t villains, but they paid a price. Natural consequences for making poor choices. Those consequences still exist today. You’re always saying that’s what makes Austen so good, right? That she portrayed human nature accurately, and that human nature hasn’t changed.”
“Yes?”
“Then look at Lydia Bennet, Maria Bertram, Marianne Dashwood—”
“Marianne?” I never told her about my musings that Josh and I are a modern Colonel Brandon and Marianne.
“Yes, Marianne. She lost her sense of right and wrong. She thought that because loving Willoughby felt good, it had to be right. Later she knew her mistake and she regretted it.”
We didn’t talk much after that. I was too confused. Hannah knew she had dropped a bomb on me.
“Sam, I’m thrilled about the article. Call if you need me. I’m always here.” She paused again. “Sam, I love you. You know that, right?”
My eyes teared. “Thanks, Hannah.” I hung up the phone. Hannah’s known the real me and stood by me for five years. I think she does love me. And although I have only recently come to see her clearly, I trust her. I haven’t given her enough credit.
Now I don’t know what to think, Mr. Knightley. I thought I was backward about this whole intimacy thing, and now I wonder. Every time Josh pushes, I back away. I want to talk to him about it, but I know it’s not a discussion he’ll like, and I don’t know what to say. He still gets silent when I leave dinners to head north. Maybe I’m making this too complicated. Maybe I should address it head on. The new me is supposed to be filled with courage, right?
And I’d better get some because between this and my article . . . there’s a lot of talking to do.
Love,
Sam
FEBRUARY 11
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The Tribune bought my piece. I can’t decide if I should jump for joy or throw up. They will publish it as a Sunday feature next month. There are so many people to talk to now—and there’s a deadline. What have I gotten myself into?
There is one person I won’t have to tell, though, and I thought I’d feel good about that—now I’m not so sure. As I told the Muirs about the article and the internship interview (Susan Ellis, the Trib’s Deputy Editor, called to schedule it), Alex came to mind, and my heart jumped to my throat. I don’t want him to know my past. Call me a coward, but in this case I don’t care. He doesn’t need to know. So I extracted a promise from the Muirs not to tell him.
The professor wasn’t pleased. “Why? Do you think he’ll use it against you? Put it in a book?”
“Of course not.” Those thoughts hadn’t even occurred to me.
“Then why the subterfuge?”
Subterfuge? “He doesn’t need to know. It’s not important to him, and I don’t want any more drama.” I hoped the professor might believe my oh-so-casual approach. He didn’t.
He leaned forward and templed his fingers in front of his chin. He looked remarkably like Father John at that moment, and I fully expected a lecture. But it didn’t come—only a few sentences that carried more power than any of Father John’s speeches.
“I won’t tell, Sam. It’s your past—your story to share. But remember: it doesn’t define you.” His words hung above us. “Never let something so unworthy define you.”
I got my promise of secrecy, but now it doesn’t feel good.
I’m going running,
Sam
FEBRUARY 15
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Happy Valentine’s Day! I know it was yesterday, but still . . . Happy Valentine’s Day. I thought about the library yesterday. I bet they have a great LOVE display up. I need to visit there soon. Mr. Clayton and Mrs. G and the staff feel so far away. I e-mail occasionally, but that feels empty and impersonal. Everything feels that way—I barely have time to keep in touch with Kyle.
He was proud of me about our names in the article and we’re good now. He’s doing great and still at Grace House. Coach Ridley put together a winter running plan for him, and he’s going to tackle the track team next month. His e-mails are full of Ridley, which is nice because I know from his tone that Ridley is good for him. Father John confirms that the coach is a solid man. Kyle needs that. And Kyle has a new girlfriend. Not sure if he needs that. I’m kidding. She sounds cute.
Alex sounds good too. He texted me yesterday.
Alex: Happy Valentine’s Day. Hallmark holiday, but still fun. Plans?
Me: Dinner with boyfriend then back to work. :)
Alex: Poor boyfriend. Have more fun.
Me: Come visit and I will. Muirs miss you.
Alex: Soon. Gotta go.
I can’t believe I wrote that. It sounded flirty. I meant to express a simple truth, but was so embarrassed when I read it over. Yet it’s true; I get electric whenever I receive a text and I hang on every word the Muirs relay from him. I hope I haven’t crossed some line—one I don’t even know exists. But it was Valentine’s Day, and everyone gets to be flirty on Valentine’s Day, right? Besides, that silly text was the best fun of the day. Dinner with Josh wasn’t so rewarding . . .
It started well. Josh took me to Spago, which is very romantic. I had asked to go to Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder. After Hannah’s engagement story, I imagine it to be dark, cozy, and perfect. But Josh says the lines are always too long and he doesn’t trust a host who claims he can remember your face rather than write down your name. So, no go there.
But Spago was lovely; I’m not complaining. Josh pulled out all the stops: he held my hand, opened the car door for me, took my coat . . . everything. I felt cherished, adored, and beautiful. But, as is my way, I put my foot in it during dessert and the evening banked south.
Over a wonderful crème caramel, Josh started talking about the future and seemed to include me in his plans, so I felt it was time for honesty. I owed him that.
I pulled my article out of my bag and asked him to read it.
He pushed it aside. “Sam, I want to be with you tonight, not read your classwork.”
“It’s more than that. Read it, please?”
He sighed and flattened the pages on the table. As he read, I told him that the Tribune would be publishing it in a couple weeks. His eyes widened with excitement. Then his expression changed. He stopped after the first two pages and pushed it back.
“This is pretty disturbing, Sam. What were you thinking? Where’d you get all this?”
“That’s me, Josh. I’m this girl. Kyle and I wrote this over Christmas break while you were in Cincinnati.”
“This is what you were doing? I thought you were resting.”
“I was. I was healing in many ways.”
“Who’s Kyle? Did he stay with you in your apartment?”
“Kyle’s fourteen. He’s a foster kid who lives at Grace House Settlement Home. I went there after the hospital. It’s where I lived from about age fifteen until I came to Medill. Kyle and I worked on this for over a week, and then I went to the Muirs’ house. I told you that.”
“You told me about the Muirs. You never mentioned this.” He took back the paper and read more. “This is you . . . ,” he mumbled.
I sat silent. The article told him everything, and that was easier than talking. And this way, his eyes were looking down, focused on the pages. There are first moments when the eyes tell one’s real emotions, before the brain r
eminds them to bank and hide. Finally he looked up.
“Everyone reads the Trib, Sam. All Chicago will read this—all your friends, my friends, my co-workers. You should’ve given me a heads-up.”
I stared at him.
“Don’t give me that, Sam. You hand me this paper and expect me to be happy for you. I need time to digest this. And, by the way, Valentine’s Day was supposed to be fun.”
“I wanted to tell you the truth.”
“You did that.” He shook his head. We stared at each other. It was hard, but I refused to be the first to look away. He shifted his eyes and relented—a touch. “This my copy?”
I nodded, completely deflated.
“Sam, listen.” Josh reached over and lifted my chin. “I’m sorry. You’ve really caught me off guard. I’ll take this and read it again. Let’s enjoy tonight, okay?”
We made inane chatter and ate our dessert. He was mildly affectionate the rest of the evening, but distracted. I felt like he was going through the motions of being a boyfriend without feeling them.
He didn’t ask me to stay. He waited while I hailed a cab, and when it arrived he put his hands on both sides of my face and kissed me, long and slow. Kisses have meanings, I have learned: some are light and playful, others search, and others promise . . . This one? I pondered it and came to no decision—decidedly undetermined.
I feel the same way,
Sam
MARCH 5
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The Tribune interview was ten days ago. I didn’t write you because I didn’t know what to say. I do now; but I’ll keep this in order.
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 14